Songs of Anisha
“The Night Is a Broken Nun,”
by Adeola Ikuomola
The night is a broken nun
Sobbing for the late noon
The old night seeks a son
To sing in the blazing sun
To sun each ray is as loan
For the moon to pay alone
To priest home is like pew
A dawn venerates the dew
To mountains is the stand
Sustained by grand strand
To celebrate a potent cock
Bottle lets go of a firm cork
Pen is as the cultured maid
Of potent virtues fully made
When writers drink their ink
Moonlights for stars to sink
“If These Were Written In Times Past,”
by Kola Tubosun
They would smell of rum, maybe wine
Of a pristine dance on brown keys that tapped,
Rasped in echoes across father’s dusty lounge.
They would reek of innocence, shy lines
Of the toddler whose eyes lay only in the silence,
laden trivia of books, and old record sleeves.
They might show relics of a hopeful child lie
Within a bulwark of rage in the silence of night,
Quiet when adults slept with ears apart, dead to the world.
They would try to hide the author’s disgust
for past bustles, home noise and day jobs,
Useless rants that mainly deter than fuel a budding muse.
But it wasn’t written then, and so the past remains
Bilked in bits of old rum in even older flasks, and pains.
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